


Red

by annatheginger



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:31:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annatheginger/pseuds/annatheginger





	Red

It is familiar. Striking, warm, sorrowing, deadly. All-encompassing, perfect. Red.

It is the remembrance of the markings on the one he loves. With the heat of the bright Palaven sun bearing down on his shoulders, the face of the being he cherishes clouds his vision as she caresses his cheek with a gentle touch. Whispered words of comfort and wisdom bring him to a state of euphoria, and he drinks in the moment as if it were the only moment he would ever have.

Tiny talons clasp at clothing, begging to be held, held forever, and the strong arms blissfully comply. The scent of her fill his lungs as she keeps him close, and no rational thought crosses his mind as time slowly passes. Touch her cheek, trace the lines.  


_Still_

It is the surprise of the glaring lights flashing angrily. Warning, and hands fumble for clothing and weapons. Sounds cascade upon him, and panic joins in with the chorus. He tries not to cry out, though he wants to run and hide. No. Be brave. Prove to himself that he could be brave, for once.

An officer yells orders in a harsh voice, get moving, men. Men? He is still just a boy, not yet a young man, with little discipline and a lot of courage. He can still barely shoot a gun, though an older soldier had once complimented him on his aim. Good eye, he had said. Maybe there's a future for you there. You have a future. Don't waste it.

No, sir.

Stand, salute. Make him proud. Make himself proud.  


_Be still_

It is the warmth of the thick liquid that splattered on his clothing. There is a sharp metal smell in the air, one that will linger in his mind for weeks afterwards. A man lie on the ground, eyes open, mouth agape in a silent scream that will never end. His nervous talons had twitched against the trigger, and then a man was forever immobile, forever gone. Dark crimson runs like a river around the body, and he imagines drowning in it, drowning in someone else's death.

The first always holds the most weight.  


_and breathe in_

It is the symbolism of a delicate rose held in rough, calloused hands. Empty words had been spoken, the attempt at comfort completely lost on this mourning soul. His hand moves down, placing the rose on the vacant casket, hoping that, wherever she was, she was watching him, waiting for him.

It would be two years until he truly lives again.  


_Breathe her in_

It is the fatal rage of unfulfilled consequence. He had never known the phrase "seeing red" could hold so much truth, so much burden. But as he stares down the traitor through the scope, the lethal shade fills his vision so completely, and he knows nothing but the desire to kill. He wants to see this bastard dead on the ground, the ending of his life avenging those who had died so needlessly.

But then she is there, blocking his line of sight, and a heated curse leaves his mouth. Move, Shepard, is all he can think to say, but she does not move. Instead, he hears the warning words leave her mouth in the calm tone he had come to love (and abhor) over the years. Shepard, he cautions her, move.

He expects the husk of a turian to fall on his knees and grovel for his life. No words of pleading hit his ears, but words of apology leave his mouth in a rush. In the end, he lets him go. Not for him, but for her.  


_You never know_

It is the veil of her brilliantly colored hair, brushing his face as she hovers above him. Her hand grips his tightly as he moves with her, and her sweet, pink lips form shapes that create breathless sounds – _ahh, ah_ – and he knows that she is completely at his whim.

She is perfection because of the imperfections that marred her; the scar slicing through her lips (as well as many more marks that disfigured her skin), her inability to dance, the freckles that ghost on her face, the way she can never stay mad at him, the fact that she so foolishly fell for someone so undeserving of her love.

But she is here, with him, with her mouth making those noises – _ohh, oh_ – and her touch promising that she will hold him, hold him forever, and never let go.  


_when_

It is the absolute flawlessness of the love she makes him feel. As his arms envelop her afterwards, and she sleeps soundly, he knows this love is completely irrevocable and unchangeable. He holds her in this moment, as if it is the only moment he would ever have.

The first love always holds the most weight, as does the last. 

_she'll be gone_


End file.
